The Old Hound

　　An old labourer, bent1 double with age and toil2, was gathering

　　sticks in a forest. At last he grew so tired and hopeless that he

　　threw down the bundle of sticks, and cried out: "I cannot bear

　　this life any longer. Ah, I wish Death would only come and take

　　me!"

　　As he spoke3, Death, a grisly skeleton, appeared and said to

　　him: "What wouldst thou, Mortal? I heard thee call me."

　　"Please, sir," replied the woodcutter, "would you kindly4 help

　　me to lift this faggot of sticks on to my shoulder?"

　　We would often be sorry if our wishes were gratified.